


no peak no fall no meaning

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [16]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Illustrations, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Organized Crime, Physical Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, tavros nitram: badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tavros is pushed to the breaking point and wonders what road he will travel down next. </p><p>The Trailerstuck side story all the fans have been waiting for. Takes place after 'matador' and 'by your bootstraps' and during 'caress me down' and 'words made flesh'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bend

**== >Tavros: Be the life of the party**

 

Satuday evening. The noise of Hanael and his posse rings in your ears and it is grinding on your very last, _very_ _worn_ nerve. You avoid the liquor but indulge yourself in cigarettes. The music may as well be white noise static and the food ashes for all you care. You know more about this posse than you care to acknowledge. You know their blood’s all different shades of blue—cobalt, cerulean, periwinkle, aqua, and sapphire. You know they consist of three males, two females, and all assholes.

You know you’re not part of the posse though, at least not in the same buddy-buddy type as the rest of these assholes. You’re Hanael’s arm candy, unless he feels like sticking his bulge in someone else for the night. You hate his parties. You hate his posse. You hate him and you’d be more than happy to see someone put a bullet in-between his eyes.

And yet you’re twined around Hanael’s claws, more literally than figuratively right now.

Hanael sits on the heavily stained couch. He’s got his arm slung around your waist. You’re wearing clothes you randomly found in the bedroom since yours were yanked off not just ten minutes ago for an impromptu ‘show and tell’ as the posse call it. They may be gang-banger-wannabes, but they get preoccupied during the school year and, apparently, they missed your warmblood ‘charms’ while they were dealing with school and ‘work’ (.i.e. pushing crystal).

But the school year is ending. Summer vacation’s arrived with all its unpleasantness.    

Another summer of cooking drugs in that hot hellhole, breathing in toxins that’ll give you cancer, or working with chemicals that will explode in your face if you’re not too careful. Another summer of being the plaything of these assholes, swallowing your dignity (among other things), tolerating the slurs, and never-ending abuse. Another summer where you live under the fear of getting knifed, shot, crossing a rival gang, and being followed home for a little ‘revenge’.

You honestly wonder if putting a bullet in your brain would be better.

You feel an uneasy weight on your shoulders. You need air. You pull away from Hanael but he’s reluctant to move his arm from your waist. _Oh, for fuck’s sake…_

You give the cobaltblood a sweet smile, “Mind letting me go, baby?”

Hanael grins and just pulls you closer. He smells like weed and cheap booze. You try not to retch, “Aww, wot’s wrong, slut? Yous think i’m ignorin’ yous fer these udda hos? Yo’ know ya my numba one.”

You kiss his cracked lips tenderly, “Yeah, baby. I know that. You’re my number one too. I ain’t _ever_ gonna leave you, baby.”

Hanael shows you his crooked, yellowing teeth. Does the man never brush? Probably sparingly. His dentist must have a stronger stomach than most. Hanael chuckles, “Cobaltbloods may live long time but I got plenty o’ video proof of yous. Plenty of stuff to keep da memory of yous alive. I got yous foreva, ho.

Your stomach twists at the mention of the videos; more things you used to pay off your debt and stay on the pill because you’d rather sink a blade in your eggsack than get knocked up with one of Hanael’s spawn. You consider yourself lucky that Hanael and his posse hoarded the footage for themselves instead of spreading it on the Internet. Not like you have any pride left to feel outraged or embarrassed. You’re already “Copperslut” and “Hoodrat Ho” to everyone at school. Some nudes of you floating around online wouldn’t come as a huge shock. Plus, it could have been considerably worse.

You live the sort of life now where it’s a small mercy that all they took was crude, raw footage on iHusks and husktops instead of spreading you out and snapping glossy photos of the details.  

One of the posse—one of the two women—caught sight of the scars and was mildly appalled that Hanael was “stickin’ his bulge in a nook that looked like it got runned over wit’ a tire”. That came a little too close to the truth for you. You clawed your arm open so you wouldn’t claw the bitch’s face off.

You refuse to cry. You’re playing the role of Hanael’s empty headed side-meat who does as he wishes because he’s madly in love with him. Hanael loves your loyalty; loves that you don’t ask questions, don’t ask too many favors, and let him do whatever the fuck he wants to you. You’re the perfect boyfriend for this scumbag. You’re Hanael’s manic pixie dream-boy.

Crying would be breaking your character.

You croon amiably and kiss the disgusting cobaltblood a second time, “Baby…I’ll _always_ be yours. Death or not.”

Hanael gives a pleased purr and finally slides his arm away from you. You walk to the motel door, but not before snatching a cigarette from the table. You need fresh air. You need to smoke and be alone with your thoughts; away from the snickering laughter of the posse and having Troll Beastie Boys blasting in your eardrums. 

Outside the motel room, it’s warm and smells of garbage left to rot out in the open. Under yellowed streetlights, you see the whores of East End Way making their rounds and Hanael’s drug-dealing pals looking for their usual customers. You always have a lighter on you. You light your cigarette, inhale deep, and blow out a plume of tobacco smoke. You enjoy the mild relief from the cigarette and it burns down quick. With the summer’s approach, you’ve been smoking more and more.

You don’t know how long you stay outside the motel door. You disregard time and contemplate spending another summer here.

You’re not sure if you can stomach it.  

“Hey, steer. ‘Sup?”

 

 

You look over and see a one armed redblood walking over to you. Ellton—a redblood who’s been squatting at the motel. He comes to the parties, sometimes fucks one of the posse members for drugs or money. He doesn’t look like a user so it has to be for someone else. You don’t give a fuck about him or his situation when you have your own problems, but— _for some fucking reason_ —he feels this means he can talk to _you_. Why? Just because you’re both warmbloods in shitty situations? Why does _that_ give him a reason to think you’re going to be the bestest friends ever?

You can’t even talk to your _real_ friends about the shit you’re dealing with.

You roll your eyes, “What now, Ellton?”

Ellton smiles and holds up a carton of Banished Quasiroyals—which are cheap smokes but pretty good from what you’ve sampled. “Oh what? Just ‘cuz you in good wit’ Da Kings, dat means yo’ too good to be talkin’ to da rest of us sluts?”

You grunt and toss away your burnt down cigarette for a fresh one from the carton. Nicotine is nicotine after all and putting up with Ellton for a few minutes for free smokes is worth it in your book. You’d smoke weed but it only serves to remind you of Rufioh.

Rufioh…

Rufioh, who probably doesn’t give a fuck about you since you disappeared last summer and reappeared at the very end of it. Rufioh, who hasn’t tossed you out on your ass to go live with Hanael since you apparently ‘love’ him so much. You’re thankful your parents aren’t together anymore; there’s no way Horuss would have let you come back. A military hard-ass like him would have shipped you off to boot camp and let that “straighten you out”.

You puff on your new cigarette, “What’s the word. El?” You’ve spent enough time in this shithole to learn the lingo; it’s like a language unto its own sometimes.

Ellton indulges in a cigarette of his own and smiles, “Saw a clown snoopin’ ‘round here dis mornin’. Him an’ his kitty-troll mate be lookin’ for a place to stay.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Clown? Kitty-troll? He wears the paint?”

Ellton grins, “Wears it _proud_ , my warmbrother. Face is a mess o’ scars. He’s somethin’ motherfuckin’ _fierce;_ makes a warmbrother almost wanna go into _heat_ jus’ lookin’ dat _fine_ motherfucker.” He says the latter with a low purr.

“You thinking he’s Brotherhood?”

Ellton shivers, “No gonna be doubtin’ that. Ev’rybody knows Brotherhood be trying’ to eat up territory of Da Kings.”

You roll your eyes, “The United Blue Kings are the Troll Little Rascals compared to the Capricorn Brotherhood. If the Brotherhood wants to take this place, they’ll take it, not give a shit, and kill anyone who protests.” You narrow your eyes, “Any reason you’re telling me about this?”

You see the red blood rise to his cheeks. You grimace. Ellton rubs the back of his head, “It’s jus’…my fella an’ I, we ain’t in no danger. He’s a purple who still got his connections to da Brotherood an’ would wanna be in tight wit’ ‘em again like he was in Amethyst. Yo’ boy is da one who be in trouble. When da gangs go to war, it’s us sideliners who be a-sufferin’. We be gettin’ caught in da crossfire, my warm brother.”

You frown, “Ain’t that the truth, but listen, I’m not interested in you like that. Hanael might not care what he sticks his bulge in but I do. I’m not interested in you, kid. My quadrants are off-limits.”

And you do use the term ‘kid’ loosely here. Ellton can’t be much older than you and he’s already got the same middle-aged bags under his eyes from stress and malnutrition.

The redblood shakes his head, lying, “Naw, man, that ain’t it! It’s just…yo all sortsa _bad_ _ass_ , y’know that?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bad… _ass_?”

“Yeah! You just sit there smoking’ ya cigs an’ ya doan give a shit what others think man! Dat be totally _bad_ _ass_! Be a real shame if ya got shot cause of some gang nonsense, y’know?”

You stare at him. You? Crippled little Nitram is a _badass_ now? You’re the same troll who still cries at the end of Troll Charlotte’s Web and collects Pupa Pan merchandise, including DVDs of the rare cartoon Pupa Pan and the Gamblignants that used to air on Fox Kits. You’re the nerd in the RPG Club with the asshole hoodrat boyfriend. You’re the bronzeblood who smokes while playing Fiduspawn.

And now you are a bad ass and worth being admired by other street trash.

You take another long drag and blow out a stream of smoke,

“Badasses aren’t born, hun. We’re forged from blood and iron, molded from laying on the anvil and being hammered into the toughest shape possible. Then we go out into the world and we do our thing.”

You take a deep breath, “There’s no such thing as being badass, at least not to me. There’s just people who don’t break easy…”

You take the cigarette out of your mouth and look at Ellton, who is staring at you like you’re spewing the gospel of the old gods themselves at him.

“I may splinter or fracture…but I don’t _break_.”

You came close to breaking—so _very_ close—after your first time with Hanael. You almost gave up then and there, lying on the filthy bathroom floor. But you didn’t. You didn’t break. You survived the surgery. You survived the accident that crippled you. You can survive this. Your legs are metal and so is your will power. You won’t break.

You fucking refuse to. 

Ellton nods, mouth slightly agape. “You’re a fuckin’ poet.” is his contribution to this conversation.

The motel door opens. One of the posse leers at you. You know what that look on his face means all too well. You flick the cigarette away.

“And don’t I know it.” you grumble to Ellton.

You head back into the motel, ready for round two with these jabbering assholes.

 

You sit on the edge of the bed. The party’s been over for a while now. You have fresh new aches and pains to deal with. Hanael is fast asleep because he’s a lazy fuck after he gets off. You look at your iHusk and see it’s nearly one in the morning. After what’s happened tonight, you’re too uneasy and disgusted with yourself to sleep.

You check Trollbook and see Terezi is ranting on her wall. She’s defriended Karkat. Huh. An interesting development there. You slide out of bed from Hanael and limp over to the living room/kitchenette. The posse have long since left, gone back to their homes in Aniline End or to the streets you suppose. You wonder who actually owns this rather roomy and yet still ratty motel room. Is it in Hanael’s name or someone else’s?

You sit on the couch and open Trollichum. Oh what luck. Terezi’s online.

 

\--gallowsCalibrator is an idle troll!--

\--adiosToreador began trolling gallowsCalibrator!--

 

AT: hEY THERE, GIRLFRIEND,

 

You don’t remember the last time you talked to Terezi and it was just one on one. Sometimes you hang out after school but you usually end up discussing your S’n’B session.

 

GC: H3Y T4VROS

AT: wHAT’RE YOU UP TO,

AT: i AM BORED AS SHIT,

GC: OH

GC: DO1NG HOM3WORK FOR TOMORROW

AT: hOMEWORK,

GC: Y34H

AT: aT ONE IN THE MORNING,

GC: …Y34H…

AT: gIRL, ITS SATURDAY,

AT: aND IT’S THE END OF THE SCHOOL YEAR,

AT: wHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HOMEWORK FOR?

GC: B3C4US3 1 W4NT TO GR4DU4T3?

AT: sHOULDN’T YOU BE STUDYING FOR FINALS ON MONDAY?

GC: TH4TS P4RT OF TH3 HOM3WORK DUNK4SS

AT: wE SHOULD HANG OR SOMETHING,

AT: bORED AS SHIT HERE,

GC: TH3 L4ST T1M3 W3 HUNG OUT W3 JUST ST4R3D 4T 34CH OTH3R 4WKW4RDLY FOR TWO HOURS

AT: ,,,,,,yEAH,

AT: bUT,

AT: yKNOW THINGS ARE JUST,

AT: sORTA,,

AT: hEAVY RIGHT NOW Y’KNOW?

AT: iTS DIFFICULT TO HANG OUT WHEN YOU’RE RUNNING IN THE STREETS WITH YOUR BABY MOST OF THE TIME,

GC: T4VROS 1M GO1NG TO L3V3L W1TH YOU

GC: 1 C4NT FUCK1NG ST4ND YOU

GC: NOT TH1S N3W V3RS1ON OF YOU 4T L34ST

GC: YOUR3 PR3T3ND1NG TO B3 TROLL 4L1 G 4ND TRY1NG TO B3 4LL TOUGH 4ND G4NGST3R WH3N 1TS NOT WORK1NG ON 4NYON3 W1TH 4 FUNCT1ON1NG BR41N C3LL

GC: JUST DROP 1T

GC: DROP TH3 STUP1D 4CT 4LR34DY

GC: 1V3 B33N YOUR FR13ND S1NC3 W3 W3R3 L1TTL3

GC: 1 KNOW YOU

GC: 1 M1GHT B3 BL1ND BUT 1 C4N SM3LL THROUGH YOUR CHOCOL4TY WORDS 4ND T3RR1BL3 STR33T SL4NG TH4T YOUR3 M1S3R4BL3

GC: 4ND YOU H4T3 WH4T YOUV3 B3COM3

AT:,,,i,,,

AT: cAN YOU REALLY SMELL THAT OR ARE YOU JUST BULLSHITTING ME, tEREZI?

GC: YOUR T3XT R33KS OF M1S3RY 4ND D3SP3R4T1ON TO D34L W1TH WH4T3V3R TROUBL3 YOUR3 4CTU4LLY 1N W1TH TH4T 4SSHOL3 YOU CONST4NTLY C4LL YOUR B4BY

GC: SO JUST OP3N UP 4ND T3LL M3 WH4TS GO1NG ON

GC: WHO 1N TH3 H3LL 4M 1 GO1NG TO T3LL

GC: 1M 4 H4RML3SS BL1ND G1RL 4FT3R 4LL

AT:,,,,yOU’RE,

AT: yOU’RE NOT HARMLESS, tEREZI,

AT: yOU WERE ALWAYS STRONG,

AT: aND BRAVE,,,,AND i,,

AT: fINE,

AT: i GUESS i CAN LEVEL WITH YOU,

 

You stretch out on the couch, grunting. You’re sore as fuck from your encounter with the posse tonight. They’ve gotten considerably more aggressive with you. The longer you stay, the more comfortable they get with having you around as a toy.

 

AT: i,,,i’M TIRED,

AT: jUST TIRED OF DEALING WITH, EVERYTHING,

GC: OH?

AT: i’M JUST TIRED OF DEALING WITH THE BASTARD AND BEING HERE WITH HIM ALL THE FUCKING TIME i JUST,,,

AT: i’M CONSIDERING PUTTING A BULLET IN MY BRAIN,

AT: jUST TO END IT,

GC: T4VROS WHY DONT YOU JUST L34V3 H1M?

GC: M4K1NG YOURS3LF M1S3R4BL3 TO SP1T3 YOUR MOM 4ND D4D S33MS STUP1D

AT: i,

AT: i’M NOT WITH hANAEL TO SPITE MY PARENTS,

AT: i,,,i CAN'T LEAVE HIM,

GC: WHY NOT?

AT: hANAEL IS NOT SOME STREET PUNK,

 

You look over at the bedroom door. Hanael is still snoring, in a sound post-coital sleep. You continue typing,

 

GC: WH4T 1S 1T THEN?

AT: hE,,,,hANAEL IS ubk,

AT: hIS FATHER’S A SUPPLIER FOR THEM AND AREA LEADER,

AT: tHEY OWN OUR SECTION OF nEW jACK cITY,

AT: eVERYONE THINKS HE’S A SMALL TIME DEALER BUT,,,HE’S NOT,

AT: iTS,,,MUCH BIGGER THAN THAT,

GC: HOW DO YOU KNOW TH4T?

AT: i,,,

 

You remember the hot hell of the warehouse; the warehouse you’re going to be working in unless you want to spend your nights in this motel being barely able to walk.

 

AT: i JUST DO,

GC: TH3 K1NGS 1S S3R1OUS T4VROS

AT: i KNOW,,,

GC: YOU KNOW K1L1NG YOURS3LF WONT SOLV3 4NYTH1NG

AT:,,,,i,,,i JUST,

GC: R3M3MB3R TH4T SHOP K33P3R TWO Y34RS B4CK ON 33RD STR33T?

GC: H3 W4S 1N D3BT TO TH3 K1NGS 4ND K1LL3D H1MS3LF

GC: TH3Y K1LL3D H1S WHOL3 F4M1LY

AT: i REMEMBER,

AT: iT WAS ALL OVER THE NEWS FOR DAYS,,,

GC: TH3 S4M3 COULD H4PP3N TO YOU

GC: H4N43LS 4 DOUCH3

GC: 1T WOULD B3 SOM3TH1NG H3 WOULD DO.

AT: i CAN’T JUST LEAVE, tEREZI,

AT: i'M IN DEBT TO hANAEL UP TO MY FUCKING HORNS,

AT: i LEAVE HIM,,,tHE GANG KILLS MY FAMILY AND MAKES ME WATCH,

GC: 4ND K1LL1NG YOURS3LF W1LL M4G1C4LLY W4V3 4W4Y TH3 D3BT?

GC: 1 DOUBT 1T

AT: sO WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO?

AT: njpd ARE CORRUPT ASSHOLES,

AT: i MIGHT AS WELL PUT MY FOOT IN THE GRAVE IF i GO TO THEM,

GC: HM

GC: WH4T 4BOUT G4MZ33?

AT: gAMZEE,,,

GC: TH3 PURPL3BLOOD YOUV3 B33N W4V1NG YOUR GLUT3 4T FOR TH3 P4ST W33K OF SCHOOL

AT: i KNOW WHO HE IS,

GC: SO YOU W3R3NT B41T1NG H1M TO GO 4FT3R H4N43L FOR YOU?

AT: i WAS,,,sORT OF,

GC: SORT OF?

AT: i MEAN,

AT: i KNEW HE WANTED TO FUCK ME, bUT THERE'S NO WAY IN HELL i WAS GOING TO MAKE IT EASY,

AT: sO I JUST SORT OF WAITED FOR HIM TO GET BORED OR MOVE ON OR SOMETHING,

AT: bUT HE HASN'T FOR WHATEVER REASON, OR MAYBE HE'S REALLY HORNY OR SOMETHING,

AT: i DON'T KNOW,

AT: i HONESTLY WISH HE'D JUST LEAVE ME ALONE,

AT: aFTER WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH, i DOUBT I'D EVER WANT TO HAVE SEX AGAIN,

GC: 4R3 YOU 4S3XU4L TH3N?

AT: iT,,,,ITS NOT LIKE THAT,

AT: i STILL HAVE MY HEAT CYCLE TO DEAL WITH,

AT: aND EVERYBODY LIKES TO FEEL WANTED OR HAVE SOMEONE,,,WITH THEM, iNTIMATELY,

AT: bUT i CAN'T REALLY FEEL IT,

AT: aND I DON'T REALLY LIKE,,,

 

You think of the current painful ache in your nook and waste chute but you can’t type it. Some things are just too humiliating and repulsive to admit to.

 

AT:,,,cERTAIN THINGS,,,

AT: hE'S AN EXCON AND i HONESTLY WONDER IF BEING WITH HIM WOULD BE ANY DIFFERENT FROM BEING WITH hANAEL

AT: i JUST DON'T WANT TO ESCAPE ONE HELL TO END UP IN A WORSE ONE,

AT: i'VE SEEN HOW SOME PURPLEBLOODS TREAT THEIR QUADRANTS FIRST HAND,

GC: BUT NOT 3V3RYON3 1S TH4T W4Y

GC: LOOK 4T KURLOZ 4ND M3UL1N

GC: 1V3 B33N T4LK1NG TO N3P3T4 4ND SH3 TH1NKS G4MZ33 M1GHT NOT B3 LOOK1NG FOR 4 QU1CK TH1NG

GC: SH3 TH1NKS H3S 4CTU4LLY FLUSH3D

 

That is something you did not know. You stare at the words and frown. Why would the clown flush you? That’s a pain-in-the-ass situation in your opinion. They’re infamously clingy as matesprits and difficult to deal with; not to mention there’s a high chance of them ending up in jail, or coming out of jail.  

 

GC: T4VROS TRUST M3

GC: 1 SM3LL SOPOR 4ND V1OL3NC3 ON G4MZ33

GC: H3D R1P H4N43L 1N H4LF 4ND NOT TH1NK MUCH OF 1T

AT: tHEY HAVE FIREARMS ON THEM THOUGH, pURPLEBLOOD MIGHT IS NOTHING COMPARED TO A BULLET,

GC: 1TS 1LL3G4L TROLLS FOR 1N N3W J4CK C1TY TO OWN GUNS

GC: 4R3 YOU SUR3 TH3YR3 R34L?

AT: tRUST ME,

AT: i’VE,,,,

 

You feel the pain in your nook again. You settle on,

 

AT: hANAEL HAS A,,,,THING FOR THEM,

AT: aND EVEN IF gAMZEE GETS RID OF THEM,,,i CAN'T,,,,,GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS,

GC: T4VROS N1T4M!

GC: 1M S1CK OF YOU 4ND YOUR P1SS1NG 4ND MO4N1NG!!!

GC: 1F YOU WONT DO 4NYTH1NG TO H3LP YOURS3LF, WHY 3V3N T4LK TO 4NYON3 4ND 4SK FOR TH31R OP1N1ON!?

AT: iTS NOT JUST THAT, tEREZI,,

\--gallowCalibrator is now offline!--

 

You sigh and watch as Terezi’s Trollichum handle grey out. Judging by the spelling mistakes and harshness on her Trollbook wall, she must just be coming off the influence of alcohol.

You weigh your options: putting up with Hanael for another summer or getting caught in a new cycle of abuse with an even bigger troll. The United Blue Kings are a gang that runs the area but the Capricorn Brotherhood is even worse. They’re inescapable once you enter prison and full of purplebloods with grudges against anyone from a ‘higher’ hemotype. (Or a lower hemotype. Or anything other hemotype in general.)

There’s no escape from the Brotherhood once you start dealing with them. They’re on every isle and every patch of tamed land on the Mainland. The Kings are just a local New Jack City gang; the Capricorn Brotherhood is international and larger than you could imagine.

Shit, you need a smoke.

You grab your clothes that have been tossed all over the living room floor and tug them on. You grab a carton of cigarettes from off the table. The air outside is dry and the motel is dark. Even the prostitutes have returned home or are still servicing clients.

You see a light from the upper level of the motel. The last time a light was on at this hour, someone was getting their legs broken for not paying their debt to Hanael. You waited outside the room and tried to ignore the screams.

You don’t ascend the motel stairs. If bullets are being used, sneaking outside the door or window could be bad news for you. You walk under where the room is and look up. There’s a lot of activity going on up there.

The door opens. You see a troll walk out of the motel room, hefting a large garbage bag. You tilt your head.  

The troll looks down at you. In the light from the room, you can see the paint on his face and his tangled messy hair. He glances down at you. The purpleblood walks close to the banister and leans over it. Your vision may not be great compared to your father or grandfather, but you can still make out the smirk on his face. You’ve seen the same look on Hanael’s face or his posse.

You roll your eyes. Oh please. Like that grin is supposed to work on you.

You tongue the air at him and saunter back to your motel. You feel satisfied knowing that Gamzee has most likely named the pain in his unsatisfied bulge after you.  


	2. bent

**== >Tavros: Wake up**

 

Sunday morning. You wake up with a kick to the metal legs.

“ _Up_.” says a voice and it’s not Hanael.

You sit up on the stained couch. You hate sharing the bed with Hanael and find an excuse to not do it if you can. You look up and see a tall woman standing over you. She’s not the sort of woman you’d expect to see around the motel. For one thing, she’s wearing a shirt and looks like she’s actually showered recently. She’s a hulking blueblood, dressed like in a businesswoman’s designer suit. She’s only a few inches shorter than your father.

 

 

You wonder if this is a rival gang member wondering what a bunch of adolescent hooligan are doing here, or maybe she works for the DD. The woman looks down at you with her designer shades.

“Are you a cook?” the blueblood asks you, in a clear voice. There’s nothing of Hanael’s Aniline End accent in her tone. Every word is crisp and well pronounced without the hint of lewdness or violence behind it. It makes you think of your father, which puts you in a bad mood in combination with not being a morning person. 

“Are you a cop?” you grumble.

“If I was with the police, young man, I would have already arrested you and phoned your parents for raising you so sloppily.” the woman responds. “I return to my previous question: are you one of my drug manufacturers?”

“Uh.” is what you settle on, because you know you’ll get a fist to the face if you go blabbing to anyone and everyone about being involved with the UBK. 

A yawn comes from the bedroom. Hanael pushes the door open, walking out in only his ratty boxers and rubbing his face. “Bitch, who in the fuck is comin’ up in here at this fuckin’ ho—”

The cobaltblood’s eyes widen when he sees the blueblood. The blueblood looks at him and gives an indignant sniff.

“Hanael. You seem to playing up your act more than usual today.” she says, “Are you spending more of your hard earned money on whores, weed, and liquor or are you looking into actually rising up through the ranks for a change? Perhaps living up to the family name?”

Hanael blanches. Immediately his posture moves from slumped over gangsta-swagger to completely straight and proper. He hurries back into the room and returns a minute later wearing a robe that is just as ratty but at least covers him.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” he says, “If I knew you were coming, I would have cleaned up a bit.”

The blueblood is already pacing around the room. She runs a finger along the kitchen table and observes the dust on her black gloves. Wait—black gloves? What kind of person wears black gloves in the middle of summer?

The blueblood looks at Hanael, disgusted, “ _Dirty_. You live like an oinkbeast in your squalor.”

Hanael nods. He keeps his eyes to the ground. “It’s part of the job, ma’am. I have to keep up appearances. What are you doing here? Not that…not that I’d be _offended_ by having you pay a visit every now and then. It’s just that—”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish his stammering train of thought. The blueblood strides over to Hanael and strikes him across the face—hard enough to make the blueblood fall back. Hanael recoils but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t even look shocked. He keeps his eyes trained to the ground.   

“Be silent for once.” The blueblood reaches into her pocket and pulls out a glass vial full of lime green crystals, “Last summer, some cook produced this and I have not found them until _now_. Do you know what this is?”

Hanael looks at the vial, “C-crystal soporin, ma’am.”

“It is _not_ just crystal soporin; it’s eighty percent _pure_ crystal soporin. This is nothing like the dreck being brewed up in someone’s basement. This is a very good high and something we can afford to charge a lot for, but you wouldn’t understand _business_ well.”

“I-I didn’t think it would matter to you. You’ve been off-island—”

“I have been conducting business and have returned to learn that one of those addicts you recruited pulled _this_ beauty off?” She shakes her head, “I doubt it, Hanael. You couldn’t even pass _history_ , let alone understand the basic of _cooking_. I talked to my men in the warehouse. They say the crystal is so pure they kept a few vials for themselves. Had they not been so foolishly greedy, I wouldn’t have discovered this gem. They told me—in-between their pleas for mercy—that you brought someone to the warehouse last summer. Someone _new._ Someone who cooked crystal so good that it lasted them for _a whole year._ They didn’t even need to use that much to get _high._ ”

She holds up the vial to Hanael’s face, _“Which one of your little hoodrat friends cooked this for you?”_

Hanael swallows and points to you. “H-him…he was…the one…”

The blueblood reels around and looks at him. You can’t see her eyes past the shades but you’re already trembling. You’ve dealt with Hanael and his hoodrat friends. You’ve dealt with the other members of the UBK—the drug runners, the cooks, carriers, lookouts, spotters, and the other foot soldiers who were kids just like you.  

You’ve never come face to face with a _true_ hardenedgangster—someone who was hatched to be in a gang and would die by its name.

You realize now why she’s wearing those black gloves. It’s to make sure she won’t leave fingerprints if she has to kill someone.

If she has to kill _you._

“ _You_?” she says.

You nod. You’re too frightened to speak.

“Name.” she says and that is not a question. That is a command.

“Ta-Tavros.” you say.

“Brownblood?”

You nod slowly.

The blueblood looks to Hanael, “Where did you find this one?”

Hanael shrugs, “Came up to me last summer. Needed a place to stay. The usual deal…”

The blueblood raises an eyebrow, “You have been copulating with a half-troll cripple for the past year?” Hanael mumbles and shrugs again. “ _Honestly_ , Hanael. I thought I raised you with better taste than that, but I suppose you must have a degrading _fetish_ for such things.”

She points to you. “You. Brownblood. Consider yourself on my payroll.”

“Uh, payroll…?” you say in a small, pathetic squeak.

“Yes.” She holds up the vial, “There are boons to be made here and I am always a shrewd woman of business first. It’s about time my offspring found someone of value instead of picking up the usual trash he sticks his bulge into, and that I must eventually sweep up.”

“I…I don’t know if I…I-I mean I was taking chemistry then and I…” Oh gods; you’re genuinely afraid. You don’t want to become a drug maker. You’re in deep enough as is with Hanael.

The woman’s lips purse. “ _Oh_. I see. Then you are no use to me.” She looks to Hanael, “Well, what are you standing there for? He’s no use to me, so he’s no use to _you._ ” She snarls, “ _Get rid of him._ ”

Hanael’s eyes widen, “But—”   

“What? Do you think I got you that _gun_ just so you can wave it around like you do your _pathetic bulge_?”

She walks back over to the cobaltblood and her claw is lightning quick. She grabs Hanael by the horn and with one swooping move, throws him into the wall. You flinch, hearing the impact of his body against the wall.

Hanael yelps and goes down, begging, “I-I didn’t say ‘ _no’_ , ma’am! Honest, I didn’t! I just—we’re in a fucking _motel_! Someone’s gonna hear the gunshot!” 

The woman grabs Hanael’s throat. “You think I care about that, you simpering pansy? You act so big and tough but when someone who doesn’t get their power from a _firearm_ comes along, you turn into the wiggler again. Where’s your hemotype pride? Huh? _Answer me!_ ”

Hanael would be able to answer…if he wasn’t choking for air and clawing at her hand so he can breathe. The woman lets him go but not before slugging him across the face. You wince again. Well… _fuck_. Now you know which side of the family Hanael gets his mean uppercut from. The woman stands up and strolls away from the cobaltblood.

She stands a foot away from where you sit on the couch. She jabs a thumb at Hanael, who is still trying to breathe, “That useless idiot is my _offspring_. Now, I want you to imagine what I would do to _you_ or whatever miserable idiots that _spawned_ you for displeasing me.”

The woman folds her arms, “Anymore protests, cripple?”

An example.

This woman—this blueblood _thug_ —just used her own _son_ as an example to _you_ on why you shouldn’t go causing trouble with her.

Sadly, it works very well. You shake your head and reply in your most polite tone, “No, ma’am.”

“Do you go to school?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Education is what separates us from the apes and common beasts. How much school do you have left?”

“Just finals this week, ma’am. Then…it’s over for the summer.” You add quickly, “Ma’am.”

“Friday night then.”

“Fr-Friday night, ma’am…?”

“That is when you start your cooking, of course. Consider it your employment for the summer and part of a, shall we say: post-graduate program?”

The woman smiles. You’re not sure if you should smile back. You definitely don’t feel like smiling. You feel like sobbing or begging for her not to hurt your family. The woman walks to the door. She says,

“I suggest you brush up on your chemistry then.”

And like that she is out the door and gone as swiftly as she entered your life.

It’s silent in the motel room after her sudden arrival and disappearance. Hanael staggers to his feet, rubbing the darkening bruise on the side of his face.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

You’re not sure what to say or what to even do here.

In some stories, this is the point at which Hanael and you would find common ground and a common enemy in the blueblood woman—Hanael’s mother. You’d have some understanding of his psychology and where he was coming from with his aggression and anger. You’d even team up against the wicked blueblood witch and become the bestest friends _ever_ because after all—the enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?

But that’s not what happens.

Because this is reality and—if this was fiction—that would be an _incredibly_ stupid plot twist (Along with having unfortunate implications about that fictitious relationship Hanael and you would develop. Was that sort of twist supposed to make him sad and sympathetic in your eyes despite being such an abusive asshole and a disgusting person in the past? And this moment of mild sympathy just washes away that abuse with a magic wave of forgiveness and understanding? That’s a load of bullshit, in your opinion).

Instead of bonding with your ‘boyfriend’—you earn a beating. After all, that woman took Hanael’s dominance and ripped it to shreds right in front of you—so it’s his job to re-establish it. He’s also making sure that you don’t go blabbing that there’s nothing ‘street’ about him the slightest. His father isn’t some low rent thug from Aniline End. His mother isn’t just another bitch that stuck out her ass. He wasn’t raised in the hood. That woman looked like she had class. She looked suburban and most likely lived a cushy life somewhere out near Variance Beach. You know Hanael is a fraud, playing into a character to keep up a good image for the gang—just like you’re playing into being subservient to him out of fear. Hanael is no more ‘gangsta’ than you are. After all, if Hanael was truly ‘gangsta’, he would have put a bullet in your head like his mother originally wanted with no questions asked.

You’re both actors, playing roles here. 

You have a lot of time to mull these pseudo-philosophical thoughts while Hanael proceeds to kick the _ever_ loving shit out of you. Your in-character pleas of “No baby” and “Please baby” soon become an out-of-character shrieks of “Stop please” “Please no” “No no no” that fall on deaf ears.

Hanael can’t beat you unconscious though. You’re valuable to his mother now. He’ll get a worse beating if he puts you in the hospital and you can’t cook drugs for her.

He decides to fuck you instead and honestly? You would have preferred a far more savage beating than to having to deal with Hanael pumping away inside you—grunting and snarling, calling you a shitblooded bitch and a hundred different insults, thinking he’s hurting you when you _still_ can’t feel a thing down there.

Even when he’s angry, Hanael doesn’t have the size or talent to make you shriek or groan from the feel of sudden penetration—or _anything_ for that fact. The only thing you feel is the usual discomfort and frustrated ache from having something inside you, bouncing and bumping around and not doing a _gods damned_ _thing_. It’s more annoying than it is painful. You still keep up the act though. You tearfully beg him to stop and then go still and silent when he finally finishes.

Hanael goes to the bedroom and tosses your clothes at you. They smell of sweat, weed, and alcohol.

“Get da fuck out, bitch, and take yer shit wit’ ya. And if yous know what’s good fer ya, ya’ll stay outta my fuckin’ sight ‘til Friday.” he snarls, “You try an’ run from Miss Gilpin, an’ I’ll fuckin’ gut yer freakshow Dad in front o’ ya an’ then put a blade in yer eggsack. Yous hearin’ me?”

You nod and quickly get dressed. You grab your book bag and start limping your way back to the trailerpark. You feel cold jizz drip out of you. You’re grateful for the dark baggy pants.   

You are really starting to fucking _hate_ summertime. 

* * *

 

The first thing you do when you get to your trailer is take a nice long bath. Your latest legs are relatively water proof. They’re nothing compared to the old creaky ones you had to deal with last summer. Equius’s machinery has improved.

You soak for what feels like hours. The trailer is usually empty. Your mother is off doing gods know what in the swamps. You don’t care. You try not to think about your currently shitty relationship with Rufioh that you ruined last summer.

You always have a first aid kit handy in your room now. Rufioh doesn’t ask about the bruises but he always looks squeamish seeing you like this. You decide you need to preoccupy yourself. Maybe there’s been some interesting developments on Trollbook, or maybe someone reviewed your fanfiction. You dig into your discarded pants pocket and wince when a sharp edge slices your index finger open. Your curse and decide to dump the contents of your pockets onto the ground since you can’t touch it.

Shards of a purple husk and glass screen fall on the ground, accompanied by battered electronics and thin bent wires. 

You stare at the remains of your—now shattered—iHusk. It’d been a wriggling day gift from Rufioh. He saved his money all year to get it for you. Even though it’s an old model, you kept it. It had all your Fiduspawn games on it and your digital comics.  

It was your last remaining connection to your mother.

And Hanael broke it while kicking you along your stomach and thighs.

That fucker. Broke. Your. iHusk.

That…that pisses you right the fuck off.

You are 100% done with this.

Fuck Hanael. Fuck Hanael’s mother. Fuck all of the UBK. You don’t care if you get shot up but you _fucking refus_ e to be Hanael’s needy little bitch anymore.

You’re ready to _pay_ Gamzee to get rid of the fucker for you now. You saw how Hanael nearly pissed his pants when his own mother was throwing him around. It shouldn’t be that much for a _true_ ex-convict to show him who’s boss.

You’re fuming as you bandage yourself up. You gather the shards of your iHusk in a plastic bag. You need to see your brother. You hate going to the Zahhak trailer because it means having to deal with your father. Hopefully, he’s at work right now and Equius isn’t. The last person you want to talk to is Horuss.

* * *

Fate does not look kindly in your direction. Go figure. You wonder what deity you accidentally pissed off to earn their ire, or if in a past life you did something to irritate She Who Steals Luck.

You look up at your father, who stands in the doorway. You didn’t have the closest of relationships with Horuss growing up and time hasn’t improved it. He’s still wearing his goggles and the helmet he never takes off.

“What happened to you?” he asks, “It looks like you fell down three flights of stairs.”

You scowl. You know you look a wreck. There’s a splintering vein in your horns from where Hanael had his foot down. You’re lucky it didn’t break. Your left eye is swollen and there are considerable bruises along your neck, arms, thighs, and waist. Your bottom lip split open and your nose is swollen and tender. You look like you crawled out of a war zone.

You mutter, “Is Equius in?”  

“Equius plans on making something out of himself so he’s at work, like most decent trolls. What do you want to talk to him for?” he asks.

“I need him to look at something. When’s he get off of work?”

“Look at what?”

 _“Forget it.”_ you snarl. “I’ve got better things to do than talk to _you_ about _your perfect son!_ ”  

Horuss gives an annoyed sigh and walks back into the trailer. “Come on in, Tavros.”

You stare at your father, “What…?”

“You heard me.” Horuss says.

You grumble and walk into the trailer. The trailer stinks of oil and troll sweat and its sweltering inside. Horuss has always been a boonpenny pincher and you know Equius and him prefer the heat of a brutal New Jack City summer. There are guns on the wall and plaques of military honor and decoration alongside them—commemorating Horuss’s bravery during battle and for being a great contribution to the service.

You follow Horuss to the kitchen, which has apparently become an equipment shed and work shop since there’s a metal table covered with tools pushed against the wall. You sit on a stool near the table and try to ignore the retch-inducing musclebeast ‘art’ hanging on the wall. How in the hell does Aradia put up with coming over here? Unless she has some weird kinks of her own— _nope._ Not going to even think about that level of _gross._  

Horuss grabs your face and presses his fingers against the bruise on your eye.

“Ugh! What are you doing?” you snarl.

He squints, “Any change or loss of vision?”

_“Let me go.”_

“When did this happen? If this swelling has been continuing for longer than forty-eight hours, you should see a doctor.”

“It happened this morning. Let me the fuck go.”

He lets go of your face and walks to the fridge, “Language, Tavros.”

“Fuck you.”

Horuss returns to your side with a back of frozen peas wrapped in a paper towel. He presses it against your face, “Don’t put pressure on your ocular sack; just keep it around the area.”

You grumble and keep the ice pack to your eye. You glare at Horuss. You don’t know why he’s being so friendly but you’re sure this is a trap.

“What did you want for Equius to look at?” Horuss asks.

You pull the baggie of the shattered iHusk out of your pocket and dump it on the table. “It got broken.”

Horuss picks up the baggie and grunts, “More like destroyed. I’ve seen battleships at the shipbreaking yard in better condition than this.”

“I just want the SD card.” you say, “I can save up and buy a new one…eventually.”

“What… _happened_ exactly?”

You don’t answer. Horuss sits at the work bench and pulls out the pieces from the plastic baggie out one by one.

“It must have taken a lot of impact to destroy this.” he mutters.

You don’t say anything. At least the cold vegetables feel good on your swollen face. You stand up, “I gotta go.”

“Go where exactly? Back to him, so he can hit you again?”

You glare at him, “Oh like _you_ fucking care. I’m with a blueblood aren’t I? I’m the fucking Copperslut, right? All I do is fuck people for fun. I should be barefoot and knocked up with his spawn, making sure he’s happy. That’s why I was hatched, _right_? To make sure the next generation is nice and fucking _strong_.” You spit out the last word.

Horuss doesn’t look at you as he calmly replies, “Hanael is a cobaltblood, not blue, and he’s not a troll of quality. I would rather see you be quadranted to a highblood of high standards; a hard worker who would be able to provide for you and your grubs. Not one of these layabouts who think they’re self-entitled to handouts from the government and bring shame to their highblood standing.”

“Highblood.” you sneer, “Oh please. There’s nothing ‘high’ about his blood or your blood or _anyone’s blood_. You’re not the nobility of this planet or any other planet. You’re _nothing_. You can be shit poor just like the rest of us and _no one_ will care. What’s the point of calling them highbloods when you haven’t actually _been_ highbloods for _thousands_ of years?”

Horuss doesn’t look at you; doesn’t react with loud anger or outrage. He drags the toolbox closer to him. He opens it and in the smallest voice possible says, “I talk the way my father taught me and I plan to not forget his ways so easily just because times have changed. Your anger towards me is futile, as I’m not the one who’s hurt you.”

“Shut up.” you growl.

“ _Tavros_.”

Your father pulls his goggles off his face. Its pale around his eyes and his blue eyes are filled with worry.

“It is _easy_ to detrollize someone who doesn’t fight back.” he says, “You have fangs and claws for a _reason_.”

His words slice through your anger like a hot knife through butter. You almost stumble back, as if he’s slapped you. You snarl, “The _last_ fucking thing I want is _pity_ from you!”

You leave the trailer, feeling angry and unable to act it out—almost impotent in your rage. You don’t care if the fucker fixes your palmhusk or not. You’d rather chew off your tongue than deal with him being a smug, know-it-all prick.  

You head back to your trailer. You have studying to do and you have to figure out where and how you’re going to get a new iHusk or huskdroid.

You spend the rest of your night in your room, studying for your Pre-Calculus exam on Monday and simply not giving a shit about the outside world.

You’ll figure out what to do about Gamzee tomorrow. 

 

Monday morning. The Pre-Calculus test is a bitch and a half but you get it done after several agonizing minutes.

You see Hanael at school, probably finishing his own exams. It makes too much sense now. Why would a true “gangsta” even bother with school? Wouldn’t being in a gang matter more to him than formal education? You consider the way Miss Gilpin acted and behaved, and wonder if Hanael went to a suburban preschool and middle school. That would explain why he only showed up in your area at the start of high school. You’ve known the others for so long and Hanael just dropped in out of the blue. Then again, it’s just a theory and your school is large.

After you test, you’re free for the day. You lounge around the school and smoke at the edge of the campus—on the yellowing and weed filled athletic field. Your smoking has gone from something you did to ease the time with Hanael and his posse, to just a compulsive, filthy habit.

Things aren’t bad…for the first fifteen minutes. You sit behind the equipment shed at the far edge of the field and decide to finally read Tithe by Troll Holly Black. You got it from the Goodwill for a dollar since it sounded interesting. Normally you’d be playing Fiduspawn Blue now, but thats on your smashed iHusk.

Then your brother shows up. How do you know it’s your brother? Well, there’s a tall shadow looming over you and you could smell his sweat from a mile away. You don’t turn around to look at him.

“Tavros.” he says, “Father told me you wanted to see me about the…condition…of your iHusk.”

“What condition?” you grumble and hope you’re giving off the air of not wanting to be bothered by your family.  

Equius sighs, “Tavros, I know you have a…huge grudge against our father but there’s no need to be obstinate. He also told me what state you were in yesterday along with the…bruises.”

“It’s nothing compared to getting run over by the fucking car.” you say, which is the honest truth. Hanael’s pummeling will _never_ compared to having that car come right the fuck out of _nowhere,_ considering you to be a part of the road, running you right the fuck over, and speeding off. Then the second realization—through the blinding pain and the nausea of seeing your blood splattered on the pavement—that every inch of your body was in a world of pain except for your legs.

“Language, Tavros.”

You growl and snap your book shut. You look at your brother and pull the cigarette out of your mouth. Without even thinking about the repercussions of what you’re about to do, you put out the cigarette on his shirt.

Equius winces and frowns. You’re pretty sure behind the shades, he’s glaring at you. “ _Tavros_!”

“Here’s some lewd language for the road since there’s no way I’m talking to you later, brother dear.” you say, “I don’t want your pity. I don’t need your pity. Horuss never gave a shit about me in the past so why should he pretend to now?”

“That isn’t true, Tavros. Our father cares about the both of us. He just has a different way of expressing it. You know he has trouble expressing how he feels sometimes.”

“Cry me a fucking river.” You move to walk around him but Equius grabs your shoulder and hold you in fucking place. You growl, “Let me go, Equius.”

“Go to the police.”

You stare at him, “… _what_?”

“Tavros, Hanael is physically hurting you and obviously you are scared to leave him. Just go to the police and they’ll put you somewhere safe.”

You stare at your brother and then—slowly—you snicker. Then you break in large, snorting laughter. Equius is surprised enough to let his grip slacken and you pull away, laughing.

“Are you that stupid? That blue blood must be smothering your _brain_.” you chuckle, “There’s no ‘protective custody’ for a troll victim of violence. No. Not in our fucking neighborhood. I’m not some middle class housetroll saying their matesprit’s treating them like they would their kismesis. I’m not even _quadranted_ with Hanael. What am I going to complain about? About him hitting his fucking side meat? They’ll laugh and place me in some shelter on the edge of town.” You grind your teeth, “No. Not fucking happening.”

The police would only be interested in the gang activity Hanael is involved in and want you as their snitch, and anyone who grew up in New Jack City knows that mob snitches get their family’s throats cut. No. Now it’s personal with Hanael— _very fucking personal._ You’ve never been a violent troll. You still have a soft spot for the (almost) harmless Tinkerbulls and other feral lusii wandering around the park and the swamps. You couldn’t bear to dissect a fetal pig for Biology because it was too cruel.

But after dealing with that bastard for a whole year?

Fuck pacifism.

You want his blood.

You want him to _know_ you had a hand in his misery.

“An ocular sack for an ocular sack.” as the old saying goes.

 

* * *

 

Your mother may be shitty dealing with money and gold digging rustbloods, but he taught you well enough about animals. It’s why you can elude and track Gamzee so easily. He’s a purpleblood and it’s easy to tell when they’re going to move. They’re about power after all and not speed. When Gamzee moves fast, he does it with a purpose secured in mind. A hand sprawled to quickly grab. A hand clenched into a fist to punch. The body language is easy enough to read.  

You were built to go fast; all bronzebloods are. Built to chase, mount, and tame animals that were trying to attack or fleeing from you. Built to fly alongside the birds. Built to elude and hide from “highbloods” who thought they were going to rule Old Alternian forever.      

Your father taught you everything your grandfather taught him about evading coldbloods. Too bad you got run over by a car, crippled for life, and now are stuck with metal legs. You can hardly call yourself a Nitram though. You don’t even have fucking wings.

You don’t have to follow Gamzee for long. He’s with Nepeta, indulging in obnoxiously pitch flirtation as they head to the motel on foot. You don’t follow him to the door though. You temporarily lose your nerve. You head to the vacant lot down the road from the motel and sit on an abandoned couch in the middle of the tall grass. You’re no stranger to the vacant lot; it’s where you’ve dealt your crystal soporin.  

You smoke your last cigarette and weigh your options in the company of stray and feral animals. You watch a rat and a Tinkerbull wrestle over an abandoned McDonalds bag.  

Get rid of Hanael. Pay off Gamzee. Be in debt to Gamzee. Be in debt to the Capricorn Brotherhood. Risk starting the cycle of violence all over again.

Tolerate Hanael. Cook drugs for Ms. Gilpin. Get more and more entangled into the UBK until you can’t even fathom leaving…

That train of thought just sends shivers down your spine. What happens if your birth control fails? What happens if a gang war with the Capricorn Brotherhood breaks out? What if you get caught by the police for drug manufacturing? Crystal soporin isn’t weed; it’s dangerous as hell and you could do serious time for being involved in it…unless you turn snitch.

“I’d be signing my own death warrant though…” you conclude out loud.

A mangy, three-eyed cat shares the couch with you. It meows pleasantly and headbutts your hand for a free meal. The yellow streetlights make its orange fur look even brighter.  

You sigh and pet the filthy animal, “Sorry…no food today, Pumpkin. I know I’m usually the guy you pester for a meal but I’m tapped out today, and you shouldn’t be eating cigarette butts.”

The cat, Pumpkin, meows at you and is probably responding, in cat-talk, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tavros. I am a cat. Food now please.”

You smirk and scratch the cat behind its chewed up ears, “You smell like an open sewer and you’re covered in three layers of grime.”

Gods, you already want to take this animal home, wash it, feed it, and nurture it with the love it didn’t get at its own home. You wonder if it’s the beast-loving bronzeblood in you or if you’re becoming like Lalonde’s mother with her near-animal hoarding.

You get off the couch. It’s now or never. For once you’re not playing a role. You’re not being the copperslut, willing to ride some gangsta’s bulge. You’re not being Vriska, all cerulean haughtiness and a snotty attitude. You’re not being Hanael, a wannabe thug who still gets beatings from his mother.

You’re being Tavros Nitram; the bronzeblood in a bad situation who wants out.

You’re being Tavros Nitram; the bronzeblood who’s sick of Hanael’s shit and wants him permanently out of his life.

You’re being Tavros Nitram and you’re taking your fucking life back, no matter the cost.

Your last cigarette is burned down. You toss it on the ground and stamp it out. You look at the lazy cat sitting on the moldering couch.

“Wish me luck, Pumpkin.” you say.

Pumpkin tilts his head at you and then begins grooming herself. You chuckle. Animal ignorance must be bliss. You walk back to the hotel, ready to face down the purpleblood. You may be Tavros Nitram now but you’re not afraid of Gamzee. Your grandfather wasn’t afraid of the Grand Highblood in all his culling fury. Your mother isn’t afraid of Kurloz or any purpleblood who comes up in his face with bullshit. So why in hell should you be afraid of Gamzee? You’ve got a hemotype rebellion streak several generations long running through you.

You see the light of Hanael’s motel room and hear the faint thump of music blasting. Monday night and the bastard’s living it up big. You ignore it and ascend the rickety stairs to the second level of the motel. You see the room at the far end has the curtains drawn but lights on. No music though, so they’re being low key unlike the actual “gangster” asshole you’ve had to put up with for the past year.

You go to the door and knock. You hear a grunt and the door opens. Gamzee towers over you. The purpleblood’s hair is the usual tangled mess but you can see bruises under the skin, only thinly covered by his face paint. You’re not sure if it’s ironic or not that you and the clown would _both_ look like two peaches that fell on the ground.  

“Who in the fuck—”

The growl breaks off when he sees you. He arches an eyebrow.

“Can I motherfucking help you?”

“We need to talk and I’d rather not do it out here.” you say.

Gamzee scowls but steps back, letting you into the motel room. This motel room actually looks like it’s been cleaned recently. The bed’s been pushed into the corner and there’s a table set up, with aluminum pans and a cardboard box on it. Nepeta is using metal tongs to hold a slip of paper. This is either the strangest soporin lab you’ve ever seen or something else that’s just as illegal.

Gamzee looks at the oliveblood, “You. Watch the door. Tav and I are talking business.”

Nepeta looks at Gamzee, looks at you, looks back to Gamzee, and reaches the obvious conclusion in her brain. She grins, “The only business you have on your brain is in-between your legs, clown.”

“I’m not the one who fucking called him here.” Gamzee snarls “Shut the fuck up and watch the motherfucking door.”

Nepeta rolls her eyes, brushing off the threat. She walks to the door and squeezes past you, “Try not to wake up the entire motel, you two.”

“Fuck off, Leijon.” you snarl.

Gamzee growls at you, “Don’t talk to my partner like that.”

Nepeta sticks out her tongue at you playfully. Gamzee rolls his eyes and kicks the door shut. You hear Nepeta yelp on the other side as the swinging door hits her glute. With Nepeta gone, Gamzee turns his attention to you.

He shows you his fangs growling, “If that fucker Hanael sent you to try and get in good with the Brotherhood, tell him and his bitch mother to fuck off back to where they came from.”

Ah, so he already knows about the UBK—but then again why wouldn’t he? Gamzee’s an ex-con who’s good in with the Capricorn Brotherhood, like all purpleblood ex-cons are. He would have an understanding of gang territory and who runs what.

You fold your arms and stare him down, “I’m not here for Hanael. I’m here for me.”

Gamzee shuts his mouth but his frown doesn’t disappear, “You need a voucher or some shit?”

“No.”

You take a deep breath. You thought this moment would be accompanied by a nervous flutter in your stomach—some sense of fear or anxiety about what you’re about to say and do. But it’s not. Your nerves are hardened by dealing with Hanael. Your first moment of fear has brought you to come to grips with what you’re going to do.

“I’m in debt to Hanael and I need that fucker out of my life, or I am going to put a bullet in my brain.” you say.

Gamzee stares at you and he tilts his head. “So…you want me to off him?”

You’re not sweating. You’re steady on your feet. You nod, “Not just that…there’s more.”

“More?”

You grind your teeth, “I did…things for him. Sexual things. Him and his entire fucking posse. They have footage of it and I…want it back. I want it _destroyed_.”

You take another deep breath.

“His mother knows my face and they know where I live. I’m only going to you with this and not the fucking police because that…that bitch is crazy. She’ll kill my family without hesitation.”

Gamzee grins, “Bitch is UBK. Their theory is that there ain’t no kill like ‘overkill’ cause ain’t no serious gangs up and fear ‘em. They’d massacre the entire neighborhood to stay ‘scary’.”   

“I…” you choke.

Oh gods. You’re just running a mental list of all the things you did for Hanael. All the debt you mounted and all the things you did to counterattack that. You clench your fist. Fuck it. Nope. Not going to cry. This is not the time to do that.

You feel like a sinner who hasn’t been to confession in years and finally facing down the God of Time’s Clockworks for judgment at the scorching maw of the Life-Death Machine.

“I cooked drugs for him…drugs they want me to cook again…and I…”

Something warm drips from your palm. Your claws have dug all the way into your skin. Gamzee watches you closely, eyes narrowed.

Then the purpleblood walks over to you. You fight against your better instincts and let him take your balled up, bleeding fist. He pulls you over to the bed and you try not to wince. Well. Great. You know what’s coming next at least. You just hope that with constantly having Leijon’s nook available, Gamzee won’t be as interested in yours. Still, you’re shaking a little.

“You don’t—”

You begin the offer of money, but then you realize that’s money you don’t have. You don’t own anything of value that would be worth trading. All you have is your nook and in the end, that’s what you are—just something for people to fuck.

“I…”

Why bother refusing? After everything that happened, why should you refuse what’s obviously going to happen?

Gamzee sits on the bed and pulls you into his lap. You remain frozen. He rests his chin on your head. You sit there, not sure what’s going to happen next. He’s not making a rush to take off your clothes.

“W…what are you…?” you mutter.

“Just shut up.” the purpleblood says. “I’m thinking up how to get those photos and make him pay.”

You blink. Oh. He’s thinking. That makes sense; he’s an ex-con. He would think about things before acting them out; you’re pretty sure jail taught him that valuable lesson, “…I can pay you off. If that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want your motherfucking money.” A large arm slides around your waist. It’s cold and you try not to jerk away from it, “Just let me hold you like this.” He says the last part with a pleased purr.

You blink, “What? Holding me?”

“Something motherfucking wrong with that?”

“Not usually what I end up doing…” you mutter.

You feel the vibration in his throat as he continues purring. Well…this…this is definitely _not_ what you were prepared for. In fact, this is pretty fucking _weird_. You sit there in the large lap of the purring purpleblood who seems to be clinging to you like a grub would their stuffed animal.

This is _really_ _fucking_ _strange_.

“You’re warm…” he purrs.

You chuckle nervously, “And yet I’m only half warmblood…”

“Yep…”

That delusional level of happiness in his voice makes you wonder if he’s high or drunk. You’re not in heat though; or at least not yet. You remain leaned against him, feeling the cold touching of his skin. The knots along your back start to untwist and relax. You’re actually…enjoying this. He’s purring and completely complacent with you next to him; he’s not pawing at you or trying to rip your clothes off.

You end up laying on the bed together, a massive arm still draped over your waist. You trace a puckered bruise that looks fresh and is still healing; one of the many scars in the roadmap along Gamzee’s body.

“I…have to be honest with you.” you say, “I’m…damaged.”

You feel his lips brush against your neck. You… _feel_ him smirk. (Gods, this is weird.)

“I ain’t exactly market fresh.” he whispers in your ear.

“No, I mean…I’m…scarred up. It’s not just my legs, it’s my nook too and it’s…a fucking mess no one should stick their bulge into…” you mumble.

Gamzee snorts, “Let me be the judge of it.”

You shake your head, “I…I don’t…”

His hand runs along your thigh, sharp claws trail over the scars where metal meets flesh. You shiver as your breath hitches in your throat.

“Scars don’t make you damaged.” he says, “Means you crawled through hell on your stomach and came out alright. Means you’re tough. Means you ain’t gonna break easy.”

You never thought of yourself as tough. When you were a kid, you used to think you were just about as tough as a marshmallow fluff. Back when you were in the chair, you couldn’t even come across as hurt or angry as you felt. After all you were a cripple. Nobody took what you said seriously.

“I…but I can’t…”

You’re numb of course. No matter how frustrated you get, you still can’t feel anything.

He strokes another scars and your breath becomes shallower. “Just shush. I’m gonna take care of Hanael.”

You swallow and realize your throat is incredibly dry. You lay in his arms and after feeling bruised, worn, and exhausted…your mind grows hazy and you drift off to sleep.

 


	3. splinter

**== >Tavros: Be The Highblood dealing with the trash**

 

You are now Gamzee Makara and you watch the brownblood drift off to sleep. He sleeps like the usual victims do back in prison—limbs curled in on their body and trying to take up the least amount of room; trying to be invisible to anyone who might hurt them. You uncurl from around him and tug the blanket over him.

You leave the motel room and look at Nepeta.

Nepeta gives you a questioning look, “Well?”

You frown, “Well what, furbitch?”

Nepeta rolls her eyes, “Don’t be a dick. He’s in deep with the gang isn’t he?”

You frown, “You motherfucking knew this whole time he was in trouble?”

The oliveblood shrugs. “I figured that if he was coming to you and it wasn’t for sex, it was for something else.” She puts her hands in her pockets, “So what are you going to do?”

“Gonna motherfucking do what I want.” you grunt, “Watch him and the door. Don’t let nobody in if it ain’t me. Not gonna be back until later.”

“Where are you going?” she asks but you don’t answer.

You’re mentally on the clock now. You’re not in prison anymore but back at the probation house where they stuck you for a year to see if you could re-enter society. It was a festering rat’s nest of a tenement in West New Jack. Your social worker would check in once every two weeks and then piss off to who knows where.

Not that you’re complaining. Being in the probation house let you learn the ropes of working for the Brotherhood. How to pretend like you’re unfocused. How to distract the cops. How to realize when you’re being followed.

Hanael isn’t hard to find. The moron literally advertised where he was going; his boys hooting and hollering about him like they were a bunch of kits that had found a dead lusus to poke in the woods.

It’s motherfucking revolting. All the UBK are like this and they dare call themselves “highbloods”…

You don’t actively seek Hanael. You just set yourself up against the motel wall and wait, eyes closed and arms crossed. Gang foot soldiers are idiots and idiots always leave themselves exposed and alone eventually. Hours pass. The morons leave their room and one by one, you watch the “posse” break apart. They drift away to their home, lovers, or stumble off drunk to sleep any place that will welcome them. Hanael is grinning like a hyena and taking a swig of beer. He’s with some skinny street tramp now, hanging off his arm. He’s alone and his defenses are lowered.

Perfect.

You wait for him to go back to the motel room before you move from your position. You stretch out, cracking your back and neck. You shove your hands into your pants pockets and idly move to the door. You don't bother to knock. These doors are barely even kept on the hinges. One good shove with your shoulder and you’re in.

You almost laugh at the fact you literally catch Hanael with his pants down and just about to plow into some whore. You look at his bulge and can’t help but smirk. Holy fuck. _Now_ you feel bad for Tavros having to actually ride that steroid shrunken bulge squirming between the cobaltblood’s legs. You’ve seen overcooked sausages that looked more satisfying than what Hanael’s packing.

“What in da shit?” Hanael growls, “Who in da fuck is yous an’ why are you here? Yous better get the fuck out if—”

You just blot out the rest because the little shit is trying to cuss you like he’s some rap-video “gangsta”—the point where you just want to sink a knife into his throat. The tramp he’s with is shrieking and covering her chest and— _ew—_ you couldn’t even begin to call those broken yellow stubs in her mouth _teeth._

Hanael pulls out a gun at you. “You got five minutes, mothafucka! Five minutes to get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna blow yer head off!”

You roll your eyes. He’s a lot of talk but you can tell from the way he’s shaking that he’s never shot anyone, or even pulled the trigger on something that wasn’t an old can. You know your way around guns. You can tell the difference between someone who’s going to shoot and someone who’s bluffing.

Soon the fucker’s screaming a lot more when you grab the wrist holding the gun and snap it without thinking twice. He drops the gun easily. The street tramp whimpers and backs away from the couch, looking at the scene—too scared to bolt since that might make her a target as well.

“Da fuck man? What da hell ya doin’ bustin’ in a brother's place like dis? If it’s money ya want den I can pay up! Okay! _H-here_!”

The moron uses his good hand to grab the wallet out of the pants sagging around his waist. He tosses it at you, like you’re some of ski mask wearing burglar. You stare at him. Did this motherfucker live with his head crammed up his own nook and thought the streets played out like in the movies? Did he think Batkindtroll was going to pop in here next and save the fucking day?

You crunch your fist into his face for being so motherfucking ignorant.

You pick up the wallet and toss it at the street tramp. You look at her; she’s young but crystal soporin’s aged her rapidly. She fumbles with the wallet and stares at you, confused.

“Motherfucker owes you right?” you hiss, “Consider that your pay with bonus. Now clear out and don’t motherfucking breathe a word of what you saw or you’re next, grub cakes.”

She nods and runs out of the motel without a word. Probably no the first time she’s seen a client about to get it.

Hanael is cursing and holding his broken nose. He glares at you like _you_ had just wronged him. Ha. You could almost laugh at pathetic this is. A lower blood trying to act like a Subjuggulator. You’re going to teach this motherfucker _you’re_ the only blood caste that has the hatchright to subjugate.

You casually pull out your knife from your pocket. You kneel down so you are at his level with the cobaltblood. You tap the blade against the side of his neck, “Now, I’m gonna make this motherfucking easy for even a moron lowblood like yourself.” you sneer, “You know a Tavros Nitram?  Well, I want all the motherfucking photos, videos, or whatever you have of him _or else._ ”

Hanael snorts and bares his teeth. You press the knife a little harder and that changes his mind. “Yeah, I know ‘em. Shitblood’s my bottom bitch. What? Yous wantin’ pics of dat crippled? I ain’t gotta tell yous nothin’, mothafucka!”

You sigh and roughly grab his unbroken hand with your free one. You hold it up.

“Fine,” you say, with fake regret, “we do this the mothefucking _hard_ way.”

You grab Hanael’s pinky and yank hard. At your size, it doesn’t take much force to snap finger joints out of place. Hanael screams (which isn’t a surprise since he’s such a fucking wussbag of a ‘gangsta’). You’re not finished though. You hold onto the knife and then cleanly slice the digit off. Your highblood brothers in prison taught you that cutting off a finger is difficult if you didn’t get it out of the socket first.

Like cutting a chicken apart, you have to snap the joints apart to make the preparation easier.

Just as you expect, that’s enough to make Hanael break down and realize what level of shit he’s in. He’s begging and pleading for his life. You let him go because he’s gone into full blown panic mode. Like an animal, he runs around the room and tries to gather up what he can to appease you. He practically throws everything he owns at you—his car keys, his drugs, his weed, his video games, and his iHusk.

You just watch him and let your tongue loll out to taste his blood on the blade. They say on Old Alternia, the blood of slain trolls was used to paint the walls. There were even rumors of cannibalizing lowbloods, which led to the greater size of the highbloods.

All _rumors_ of course.

“Take it! Take anythin’ you want! All I gots is da footage I shot of da cripple!” Hanael says, “My boys shot plenty o’ other stuff but dis is all I got! It’s all on the iHusk! Now, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong to ya, bro, so you gonna…you gonna lemme go?”

Oh great. He’s begging again. You get to your feet and eye him up before going to the items he’s piled up on the small table. There’s quite a stash here he’s got. Like any wannabe gangsta, he pretty much felt that having a lot of crap to flash at people made him real hot shit.

Hanael grins at you, sweating. “So we cool right, bro? All coolsies?”

You smirk, “Oh yeah. All the motherfucking coolsies....”

Hanael is still grinning like a moron. “Cool, cool…”

He’s still grinning when you smash your fist into his face again—hard enough to knock him out. He goes down easier than you thought he would. Judging by the blood coming out of his mouth, you must have knocked a fang loose. You roll your eyes. Just like the UBK to use foot soldiers of _this_ quality.

You go to the bedroom and yank the sheet off the bed. You wrap the unconscious Hanael in it and heft him over your shoulder. You grab the car keys off the table and see a little ‘beeper’ device attached. You enter the empty parking lot and press down on the remote’s unlock button. The hovercar parked right in front of the motel beeps. It’s nothing special; your basic sports hovercar with a flashy paint job. At least you know where the other half of this motherfucker’s money went into.  

You toss Hanael in the trunk and get into the hovercar. The inside stinks of weed and beer. You take your time exploring the car, knowing that even wannabes gangstas have traps in their cars for keeping money and drugs without attracting so much suspicion. There’s no rush to get out of here. None at all.

And like any cliché gangster, the compartment’s built into the glove compartment. There’s at least a thousand boons stored here, all cash and in clusters of twenties and fifties to avoid suspicion. You pocket some of the cash and save the rest for later.

You drive out of the parking lot at a leisurely pace; moving too fast would attract attention after all. You cruise through the streets, passing by Fairmont Shoppes and noticing the Hive Depot there—right next to the Alternian Garden and Raffil Fried Chicken.  

You decide to pick up some supplies and pay for it with the cash you found (along with buying a Pineapple Orange Faygo because this is thirsty work). When you return to the car, there’s no thumping or murmured outrage from Hanael. The bastard’s either dead or sleeps like a log. You honestly hope he’s alive.

It takes the fun out of this if he dies so quickly.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t come around until you’ve already gagged him, tied his hands behind his back, and shackled his feet with chains to a large cinderblock. You’ve placed him in the shallower part of the swamp, at the very edge of where it begins to get deeper. 

You don’t have a watch but you can tell by how dark the sky is that it’s far past midnight. Unlike the other trolls, your night vision is superior. You had plenty of practice in prison to train it.

Hanael’s eyes slowly open.

“Morning, sunshine. Comfortable? No? Well, that’s too motherfucking _bad_ …”

He looks so confused. It would be a sin not to enlighten him to the will of the gods just before he’s about to join them in the wretched dreambubbles. You kneel down and yank his head up by the horns.

“Now, motherfucker...” you say in a purr, “ listen well because you are only going to hear this once: you ain’t no highblood. You ain’t no Subjuggulator. You go ‘round like you’re the motherfucking Grand Highblood like it’s your motherfucking hemoright. But you _ain’t_.

“You’re fucking _cobalt_. And cobalts ain’t no _true_ highblood and thus you, motherfucker, have been _abusing_ my blood. Motherfucking desecrating it with your behavior. And that that just pisses me right the fuck off. Pisses me off even more with how you treated Nitram—no class, no style, just motherfucking _gluttony_. Man, the God of Mirth and Rage ain’t even that horrid of a lover like you was. Even his _victims_ got a taste of his wicked-nasty pleasure.”

Hanael is trembling. Your grin widens, “Too bad I ain’t got the time to show you how it’s motherfucking done. Your nook is probably as cozy as a circus tent from all the screwing you do. So I’m gonna appease my motherfucking god in the way _he_ loves best…”

Your grin is nearly ear to ear as you drag him by his horns. The little bastard screams and squirms the entire way, even though he’s helpless to move. You pull him to the edge of the dark water and heft him over your shoulder. Then you toss him in.

He doesn't go far. The weight of the cinderblock pulls him straight down. Hanael shrieks, gargling water. He sinks below and you chuckle, watching the bubbles cascading up. You grin and watch as the bubbles slowly stop. You wonder if this will appease your god, while he paints in the blood of his enemies and laughs at the needful destruction.

It isn’t over yet though.

You see movement in the water—just simple bumps of white in the dark water. The beasts are a new addition to the planet; some crazed ape yahoos combined lusus genetic with the native wildlife to make new, tougher species. These creatures had a goat's beard and long horns and their tails ended in a long flipper. The beasts are crocodilian in form, huge and white with wide deep purple eyes.

You’re not sure what their proper name is but in this section of New Jack City, they’re called goatdiles. Out of all the things you like about creatures—you’d pick their toothy smiles as your most favorite thing. They’re wild, bloodthirsty, mirthful beasts said to be connected to His rage.

They paddle through the water and circle around where Hanael has sunk. Then they dove down. The water churns up, cobalt blood staining the foam that kicks up. Come morning, there won’t be a thing left of the motherfucker. The goatdiles devour every morsel of their prey. They’re greedy predators after all. The only that bobs to the surface is the motherfucker’s stupid knit hat. It floats there for a minute before a goatdile cruises up to swallow it whole.

You walk back in direction of where you parked Hanael’s—well, now it’s _your_ —hovercar, feeling pleased with yourself. When you get back to the hovercar, you lean against its side and look up at the sky. You reach into your shirt and pull out a chain with the Capricorn symbol on it. You hold it up, looking at the symbol of your hemotype. Your bloodline. It looks like any old copy of the symbol, however the ends are pointed like a knife. Not enough to kill any motherfucker or really hurt anyone, but enough for the purpose it served.

You hold your right arm and bring the sharp point down on it. The along here are small and more purposeful. They are lined up in neat jagged rows. You bring the symbol’s edge into his skin and make another mark. This is your sixth mark.

A scar for every kill.

In the past—on Old Alternia—you would have done it with the weapon of your fallen foe, like a proper Subjuggulator. On New Earth, such practices couldn’t be done since bullets we’re claws, sickles, lances, or clubs

Speaking of symbolic scars....you have a matesprit to get back to.

No rush though. There’s always time to savor a bloody night.


	4. solder

**== >Gamzee: Be the scarred bronzeblood**

You are Tavros Nitram and you are just waking up. Your head is pounding and your eyes feel itchy. You sit up uneasily and then realize you’re still wearing your clothes (for a change). You look around and see Nepeta is dipping slips of paper in aluminum pans.

You sit up and scrub your eyes, “When did I fall asleep…?”

“A while ago. You’ve been out for most of the night.” Nepeta says, still doing her meticulous dipping.

You push the blankets away, “What time is it?”

Nepeta yawns, “Probably about…four in the morning? Sun’s going to be up soon.”

“When’d Gamzee leave?”

“Erm, you feel asleep about…eightish I think?” Nepeta cracks her neck, “Fuck, I should sleep. I’ve got a paper to turn in for History.”

Shit. The History essay. You should be heading home yourself to print out the essay. You managed to finish it, having chosen the option of picking out a boring but easy to research topics—like the first human-troll contact on New Earth. History has always been one of your stronger subjects.

You look at the oliveblood, “Surprised you’re not calling me copperslut.”

Nepeta frowns, “I don’t care if you’re a slut or not but if you break Gamzee’s heart, I’ll break your metal legs.”

“Suddenly protective of your _not_ -brother?”

“He’s my _kismesis_ ,” she hisses, “and _I_ am the only one allowed to make him _miserable_. _I’m_ the _only_ one he should hate and feel angry when he thinks about me.”

You grin, “He called you his ‘partner’. That doesn’t sound like kismesistude to me. How do you even pitch a purpleblood? Gamzee would club your skull in and think jackshit about it.”

Nepeta put the metal tongs down and walk over to you, snarling. “Sure, if I was some tiny oliveblood who knows jack-all about what real fighting is, like my _mother._ ” She shows you her teeth and you notice how absurdly sharp the front two are. They’re not the tiny pinpricks Meulin has in her mouth, “My _father_ is purple. I have his fierceness and his height. If this was Old Alternian, I’d hunt and skin people for fun. I’m _that_ sort of troll. I can handle Gamzee better than you can handle Hanael’s _bulge._ ”

“I handle bulge better than you at least. Besides Gamzee, has a bulge even gotten close to your lips or hands?” You see her cheeks go olive and you snicker, “Oh my gods, Leijon. Do you not understand what ‘ _foreplay’_ means?”

_“Shut up, copperslut!”_

“This copperslut knows a lot more about sex than _you_ could ever hope to.”

Gods, it feels like it’s been ages since you had a serious pitch flirtation. You must be desperate if you’re seriously considering Nepeta for your quadrants, after years of being uninterested in her attempts to get you to pitch back.

There is a thumping at the door that interrupts the both of you before you consider black-infidelity. Nepeta walks to the door and lets Gamzee in. Gamzee’s hair looks wet and the bottom of his jeans are wet and muddy. He’s carrying a familiar looking husktop in his arm along with a cash box.  

Gamzee looks from you to Nepeta and immediately plays auspistice. He nods to Nepeta, “You. Out.”  

Nepeta folds his arms, “You’re not even discussing anything I don’t know.”

Gamzee snarls, showing his teeth, “I am not in the mood to deal with you right now.”

Nepeta rolls her eyes at the threat and walks to the door. She opens it. “Then I’m going home. Have fun cleaning up without me for a change, _asshole.”_

“Don’t let the door hit your giant glute on the way out.”

“My glute isn’t _giant_!”

Gamzee responds by kicking the door shut on her again. You hear Nepeta growl on the other side and stomp off. Gamzee walks over to you and dumps the husktop and iHusk on the bed.

“There you go, Tavbro.” he says.

You look at the discarded technology and recognize the brand new husktop and iHusk quickly. You stare at it and look up at Gamzee. You…you’re actually grinning. You’re grinning and you don’t have to fake it.

“You…you did it?” You chuckle, “Oh my gods, you actually got it…”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I do it?” Gamzee holds up the cash box, “Plus, something extra. Course the rest of those motherfuckers probably got some footage on them, but they ain’t gonna get far with it.”

And he gives you a wide toothy grin as he sits on the bed next to you. You pull him into a hug.

“Thank you…oh gods, _thank you._ ” you whisper, “I don’t know how to repay you for this…”

His hand slides to his waist, “How about you stop stringing me along for one thing?”

You sigh and mutter, “My scar tissue isn’t for show…I’m _numb_.”

The purpleblood tilts his heads and pulls at your shorts, “Let me be the motherfucking judge of that. You only been with motherfucking dumbasses who think they’re fucking a piece of meat. You ain’t been with nobody who _cares_ about you, Tavbro. Hanael didn’t know what he was doing with his micro-dick.”

You groan internally. You wish you could find the words to _prove_ to him that you could be fucking a sword and not feel a thing. You lay back on the bed and look at the wall, counting down to the eventual disappointment.

He doesn’t immediately go for your shorts though. Once again, he’s not trying to yank them off of you like they’re on fire. He kisses you and you feel the scars on his face rub against your neck. You kiss him back, because…well, why the fuck not? You didn’t kiss Vriska when she fucked you (mainly because you hate her and on some level, _still_ hate her) and you kissed Hanael as part of the show.

It’s strange kissing Gamzee; almost as odd as being snuggled on by him. There’s a dramatic difference between your body temperatures and the sensation of having him rub against you…well. It’s unusual to say the _least._ You’re no mincing virgin though and you don’t have to pretend to be timid or lay there and just wait for it be over. You lay back and watch the purpleblood plant chilled kisses along your body. You shudder as you feel lips against your nipple, his ribs, your waist, your thigh and…and you involuntarily shudder when you realize Gamzee’s moving lower and lower. He arrives soon at your thighs where the fingertips of your scars start to be seen.

“Tavbro.” he says.

“H-huh…?” You mutter, licking your dry lips.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“I-I…” You grind your teeth and admit, “I never enjoyed this…”

“Cause you dealt with assholes. You’re dealing with me now.”

His thumb runs over your shorts, tracing a circle over where your bulge is. You shudder again but it’s not from fear this time around. You never been gently touched there, unless it was by your own hands when you were at the peak of your hormonal frustration with yourself (although it was, like many things, ineffective).

“Look at me.” Gamzee purrs, so you do.

 

 

The larger troll has your zipper in his teeth. He tugs it down and undoes the button there. He slides your shorts down and pulls at your underwear with his teeth.

Gamzee looks at your boxers and smirks with elastic in his mouth, “…zebra stripes?”

“They’re old…and I like animal patterns.” you admit. Gamzee snickers and you give him a playful nudge with your leg. “Oh like your boxers are any better.”

Gamzee chuckles and finishes pulling off your boxers. You hold your breath and sink more into the bed, waiting for the reaction. Gamzee looks at your scars, tilts his head again, and your heart is thundering in your chest. Fuck, you should have told him to turn the lights off. You should have said for him to take it slow. Why did you even agree to let him see your damn scars? Sure, it like the second time in your short lifetime you didn’t mind someone taking off your clothes but _fuck_ this is a bad idea. Even ex-cons have standards.

You get too nervous to even look at his face. This is too raw for you; too real. You’d probably be able to deal with it better if you were pretending to enjoy the look from one of Hanael’s posse. It’s impossible to bear when you have to deal with it on your own terms.  

After not even a minute of looking, Gamzee says, “Looks fine to me.”

“It isn’t…” you mutter.

Gamzee shrugs. “I got motherfucking scars deeper than this. Just shows you got badges of honor all around you.”

“I-it’s not a b-badge or...anything like that…just…a botched surgery...” You mutter, “I didn’t go to war. I didn’t get on the wrong side of a mobster. I just…wanted to walk again and I—”

Your gloomy train of thought is shattered when Gamzee licks a knot of scarred over tissue right besides your bulge. It feels like someone pushed a cold sponge against there. You jolt.

“F-fuck…!” you gasp.  

He doesn’t let up though. He continues kissing and licking over your scars along your bulge. Although you can’t feel the licks and touches closest to your nook, the way he works your bulge more than makes up for the lack of feeling inside your nook. You wheeze as you feel something…flutter inside you. Your eyes widen.

Gamzee rubs a callused finger over your bulge. “My motherfucking opinion,” counters Gamzee, “is that these scars are motherfucking gorgeous.”

You sag on the bed, panting, “F-fuck…”

Gamzee chuckles, “And you said you couldn’t motherfucking feel anything. Bullshit. Your problem is that you were with an asshole who didn’t know how to get you wet properly. Bastard probably fucked you when you were drier than a _bone_.”

Gamzee strokes your bulge again. You moan, “Trolls got two parts for a reason. You gotta work both or you ain’t gonna get no satisfaction.” He leans in to lick the tip of your bulge and you feel a sudden— _wonderful_ —spasm and warmth that spreads from your nook outwards. He licks your bulge a second time, “You feel me, Tavbro?”

Your response is a loud moan and showering Gamzee’s tongue, mouth, and painted face with your copper-colored genetic fluids. You lay back on the bed and fuck. _Fuck_ you feel like you could just fucking melt. You look over at Gamzee and, unlike Hanael, he’s not flipping out at having your fluids on his face. He smiles and strokes a scar on your nook.

“Nook is wet too, so it ain’t ‘numb’ like you say.” Gamzee says, “Just needed a motherfucker who knows how to work it.”

You smile at Gamzee, “Where have you been for most of my life…?”

Gamzee raise a an eyebrow, “In motherfucking prison.”

You blush. Yeah, you’re still a dumbass dork sometimes. “Oh…yeah. Forgot.”

“You’re a stupid dork.” he snickers and kisses your forehead, purring.

You grin, “You’re getting jizz and paint on me.”

“Jizz is _yours_ though, motherfucker.” Gamzee purrs back.

“Tell me…” you say, “…what did you do to Hanael?”

Gamzee grins, “Cement shoes.”

Ah.

So he’s definitely dead then.

Well…

You can’t say you’re surprised. Gamzee is an ex-con and it is one of the more popular ways to get rid of a rival gangster; it’s not like Hanael or his psychopath mother was going to let you go so easily. Still, you feel uneasy about this.

“You’re gonna cause a war with the UBK.” you say.

Gamzee snorts, “Won’t be my first time dealing with motherfuckers thinking they can take on the Brotherhood. UBK’s a punk gang. Ain’t got no real hold on this territory.” He traces a scar on your leg, “Don’t fucking worry about it. Just the sort of shit I deal with.”

You don’t push the issue of gang relatiation from the UBK any further than that. Gamzee holds you while you count the money in Hanael’s cashbox. There’s more than a thousand in it—something you could actually use to buy a new iHusk (among other things). You decide to divvy up the money though, since you don’t feel it is right to take all of it.

Blue light filters through the motel room. Gamzee is still holding onto you and you have to pretty much pry the purpleblood off.

“Alright, Gamzee,” you say, “I have to get home and turn in a test. Then pass the fuck because I’ve been up all night. Gamzee. _Come_ _on_.” You chuckle and kiss him as he finally lets go of your waist. “We can see each other at _school_ too.”

Gamzee lays down on the bed and yawns, “You need a ride?”

You stand up, “Nah. I like to walk. Clears my head. And _no,_ ” you quickly add, “you can’t come. The last time a coldblood came to my trailer; my Mom had a snake attack him. For you, he’ll make it _five_ snakes.”

Gamzee grumbles disappointedly but stretches out on the bed. He doesn’t have to worry about exams with his SAT status. You stand up and walk to the door. You leave the motel and look around. In the early dawn, the prostitutes are heading home and the addicts are passed out in their cars.

You breathe in the smell of rotting garbage and car exhaust—the thick miasma surrounding the motel. It’s rancid and it smells like freedom. It feels like a weight that you’ve been carrying around for the past year has been lifted.

You walk from the motel and into the vacant lot. You go to the moldering couch and see—yup—there’s that mangy cat. It’s wet with morning dew. You grin and pick it up, ignoring the smell.

“Come on, Pumpkin. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaoi is an acronym created in the dōjinshi market of the late 1970s by Yasuko Sakata and Akiko Hatsu and coined in the 1980s standing for YAma nashi, Ochi nashi, Imi nashi "No peak (climax), no fall (punch line/denouement), no meaning".  
> \- from Wikipedia
> 
> SYMBOLISM!!


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